I never told anyone about the day she showed up at my door.
I don’t think she ever told anyone, either, but I could tell from the way her eyes went slippery when she passed me in the hall that we were both keeping the same fossil in our chests, a secret stuck so deep you’d need a hammer to get it out.
This morning I woke up for school and noticed that my father had not come home yet. That was normal.
That meant breakfast was up to me. I poured stale Cheerios into a plastic bowl and drank the leftover milk straight from the carton. It tasted like the inside of the fridge, which was mostly empty except for a six-pack of beer (two left) and a half-tube of mustard.
I didn't mind. I liked the quiet better than the long speeches or the punches. I was good at mornings like this; better than any grown-up.
I left for school before the sun even finished climbing over the trees. The air was so cold it made my teeth ache, and the soles of my shoes slapped against the sidewalk, echoing down the block.
I walked the whole way without seeing a single other kid, which made me feel like a ghost.
I got to the playground and watched the janitor, Mr. Louie, salt the front steps with a blue scoop. He waved at me, so I waved back, but neither of us said anything.
I liked Mr. Louie because he left me alone, even when I did stuff I shouldn't, like hiding in the mop closet or rearranging the traffic cones into a big circle.
School didn't really start until the bell, but kids always showed up early, hanging around in clumps or fighting over the good swings. I liked to stay at the edge.
If I crouched quietly enough, I could eavesdrop on anyone I wanted. It was like being invisible, with ears.
Today I did that. I found a spot under the slide and just watched.
A couple of kids were picking on Amelia, calling her “junkie girl” and “trash baby.” I knew those words already, because my dad said them all the time about her family.
The boys weren’t even doing it to make her cry. They just wanted to see who’d win the contest for being the biggest asshole.
I kind of wanted to go over and tell them to knock it off, but I didn’t. Instead, I watched, knees tight to my chest, and tried to pretend I didn’t care what happened to her. I tried to pretend I was anywhere else.
But then one of them pushed her, just hard enough to send her sprawling into a puddle, and that was when I got up. Not because I wanted to, but because my feet went before I could stop them.
I shoved the kid who did it hard enough to make him fall. He called me a freak, and then I hit him.
I’d never punched anyone before, not really, but the second my fist landed on his face, I felt a sick zing of relief. I hit him again, and this time he bled.
Not a lot, just a nosebleed, but it felt important. He cried, and that was even more important. I wanted to keep hitting him, but a teacher finally yanked me off, her hands wrapped around my arms like cable ties.
They put me in the office with a bloody knuckle. Amelia sat across from me, her jeans wet and stiff, hands folded in her lap. She didn’t say anything, just stared at the floor, and I did the same.
The nurse came in and dabbed at my hand with a wet cotton ball. She called me “sweetheart,” which made me want to smash my other hand just so she’d stop.
Amelia looked up at that, just once, and we held eye contact for exactly three seconds before I dropped mine. Three seconds is a long time if you count it slowly.
The counselor came next. He was a small man with glasses and a voice like a wheeze, and he kept saying, “Now Caiden, can we talk about our choices?”
I wanted to tell him nobody made any choices here. The world just crunched you up and spit you out, and sometimes you landed on your feet, and sometimes you didn’t.
I didn’t want to talk about choices. I wanted to go back to the slide, or better yet, backward through time, to the minute before I watched Amelia get pushed.
But that was not a choice either.
The counselor kept at it, his words clumping together like wet bread, asking about “home environment” and “conflict resolution.” I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing and let the scab on my knuckle grow tacky under the Band-Aid.
After an hour or a year, the principal came in. She had a tight face and wore her hair in a helmet, and talked in a way that made every sentence sound like a punishment. She explained that I was suspended for three days. She said the word “violence” like it was the taste of soap in her mouth.
The thing I learned is that it’s better to be violent than dead, like a feral dog. I’ve been living with violence, and it’s all I knew at this point.
“You know you’re a smart boy, Caiden,” she said, leaning down to my level, “but you have to make good choices, especially when it comes to your temper.” I nodded because that’s what you do when grown-ups stare at you like they’re waiting for a trick.
